


velocity

by kosy (orphan_account)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Calculus As A Drunken Simile For Love, Drabble, M/M, Pining, Slice of Life, Unresolved Romantic Tension, sets this gently on the ground and leaves to go write more fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22217305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/kosy
Summary: Yet another meandering conversation in the back room of a bookshop.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	velocity

“‘S like this,” Crowley says with great effort, focusing hard on the air in front of him or maybe just focusing on focusing at all. “‘S like. This.” 

“What is?” Aziraphale asks with infinite patience. Were Crowley looking, he might notice the fondness in his eyes, overflowing from every line of his face, every small twitching movement. 

Crowley is always looking. But, as he has long since learned to do, he looks away, pushes it aside, blunders on as ever. The mistake, he thinks, is excusable. 

“‘S like—" He doesn't say what, exactly; hopes Aziraphale is too far gone to bring it up, "—there’s this thing, in, in calculus, right, about lines, and points on a line. You’ve got a curve, and a point on the curve, and points don’t move, or change, or wha’ever. They’re not even lines, they don’t go anywhere, they’re just there, right? A sort of thing captured forever in that one moment, kind ‘f like a photograph. Yeah?” 

“Not sure I follow, dear boy,” the angel says, brow furrowed, and Crowley waves him off. 

“Listen, it all makess _ s _ sense, ‘ss math. Sso you’ve got your curve, maybe a parabola, and you’ve got a point on the curve, frozen in place. Doesn’t move, by definition, but it’s moving. ‘S got a—a—” Velocity. His mind, through its truly stunningly inebriated haze, helpfully supplies  _ velociraptor.  _ He physically bats the idea away with a clumsy swat of his hand and continues, “—a speed, anyway. Still goin’ somewhere, see? And that action of trying to go, it’s got a value. The, the speed. ‘Cause the line’s still changing. And the point’s not moving at all, but it’s still goin’. Changin’, always. Still tryin’ to get where it’s headed, where it wants—needs, really—to go. Ssstopped but—not. Can’t be. Line’ll get there eventually.” He dials in again, fixes his gaze on Aziraphale triumphantly. The angel’s lips are pressed together into a thin line as he stares off into the middle distance, eyes unfocused. 

“It’s a point, though. It doesn't work that way. It can't move. Can’t have a speed.” 

  
  
“Can,” Crowley insists, leaning forward. 

_ “Can’t. _ And anyway, how would you know? You said yourself you don’t read.” 

“Can. And. Still  _ don’t _ . Never would. I just. Picked it up along the way. Y’ hang around long enough in the right places during the Islamic Golden Age, you’re bound to remember something,” Crowley scoffs, arching one eyebrow up at the angel.

Aziraphale scrutinizes him doubtfully. Even drunk out of his mind, the focused holy fire burning in his eyes is enough to make Crowley’s wings twitch with some pseudo-biological apprehension on another plane of existence. 

The Angel of the Lord looks upon the snake-demon, the Author of the Original Sin, and  _ harrumph _ s quietly. 

“Fine. So what’s the—?” 

_ “Point? _ Ha.” Crowley grins, bare yellow eyes narrowing, and Aziraphale falls back into the armchair with a huff. “The point is. Is.” He searches for it a moment. 

“You do have one, don’t you?” The angel watches him, dubious. 

“‘Course I do. Always do.” He shifts in his seat, hooking one leg over the other, then changing his mind and untangling. He licks his lips with a distinctly forked tongue. He considers it painfully, turns it over in his mind, just saying it: _don't you see it, angel?_ We're _the point. Or—I am, at least. Can't you see where we're going? Don't you want it, too?_

“You _don’t!”_ He seems delighted to have caught Crowley in a perceived stumble, almost, and Crowley almost has to smile at him, on reflex, feeling that—that exuding joy. 

He considers. _Don't you see._ Turns it over in his mind painfully. Hates himself, just a little bit. 

_“Do._ _Must_ do. Didn’ spend She-knows-how-long talkin’ about calculus for nothing, did I?” 

Aziraphale’s eyes crinkle up then, in that bright way they do when Crowley’s said something particularly foolish or brilliant or maybe particularly  _ himself, _ as if he wouldn’t notice. As if he didn’t notice everything. And really, that makes it all worth it. 

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale says indulgently, that secret, hidden smile curled up on his cheeks, eyes shining with drunkenness and amusement, and suddenly Crowley wants,  _ wants _ so much it aches right on down to his unnatural bone. It’s a wide want, a want that tastes like red wine and feels like six thousand years of waiting and watching and trying so hard not to do either of those things. It’s not as rare a feeling as he wishes it might be. 

Mouth suddenly dry, Crowley makes a gesture in the air that might have once been elaborate. “More wine?” That smile again, subdued but pleased. Crowley closes his eyes. 

“You know me too well, old serpent.” 

**Author's Note:**

> this was going to be longer, a proper get-together fic, but realistically i wasn't ever going to finish it! so i hope you enjoyed it as it is :) thank you all very much for reading <3 commenting and kudos-ing is, of course, beloved!


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